Your Touch, My Touch
by L56895
Summary: Little snippets immediately post-finale all on the topic of touch. T for now.
1. Breath in the Night

She remembers the first time she ever touched him; in a mind empty of a history it's easy to catalogue all of the things she has experienced since she climbed out of that bag. She remembers how his brow furrowed as she reached out to touch his cheek, how his eyes searched her, full of worry and not a small amount of confusion and longing that she assumes now was mirrored in her own. She remembers the feel of his cheek underneath her fingertips; coarse stubble, skin warm.

He feels different now when she reaches out in the darkness. The same stubble against her skin, but this time she spreads her palm out naturally against his face. Gone, in the space of what feels like years but is actually mere hours, is the trepidation with which she used to reach out for him, the conviction that he would not want to be touched by her ever again. He loves her, trusts her enough to fall asleep with his arm draped across her waist and his other hand curled around to rest on the tattoo of his name on her back. Her eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough that she can make out his features; his face calm with sleep, brow relaxed and mouth slack. When she closes her eyes she can picture his smile before they settled in to sleep; his unabashed grin when he was on top of her and his easy laugh between kisses. Those lines around his eyes now remind her of laughter, not worry.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat and she realises that she has been staring. When he opens his eyes he blinks, focusses and tightens his grip around her.

"Sorry, I woke you," she breathes softly, pulling back her hand and touching her lips, a habit she has picked up from nerves recently. He moves his head, cheek tapping against the pillow, a lazy shake of the head.

"Don't be," his voice is barely more than a rumble, but in the stillness it comes clear, "Don't ever be sorry for being the first thing I see when I wake up."

He pulls her closer still and touches his lips to her forehead, her cheek, her lips. She is like putty underneath his palms; she moulds herself to him, chest pressed against him, and lets herself _be._


	2. Difference

He touches her sparingly in the office.

They know that her position in the FBI is not conventional, frowned upon by some people, and they act appropriately. Sometimes she feels his hand on the small of her back as he guides her through his office door. A quick touch of fingertips when he hands her a pen. He is always sure to brush his knuckles against her palm when he hands her a file, always puts it straight in her hands and looks her directly in the eye. It's one of the few times his professionalism slips and she sees the lust in his eyes. But then the mask is back, the acknowledgement that people make allowances enough for them, that he doesn't want to push anything further and risk losing their tenuous position within the same walls together. At the end of the day he slips his hand in to hers as they walk in to the elevator together.

He touches her possessively when they're in the field.

That hyper-awareness of her every move, that overpowering need to know that she is safe has never left him. Even after all this time. They have nearly lost one another too many times now for him to ever be completely convinced that they'll both make it back in one piece. They work in perfect sync as a team; she reads his every expression, every hand gesture, as if she can see his thoughts; but he still grips her elbow tightly when they're about to round a corner. Still wraps his arm around her waist to pull her out of danger. She'd feel annoyed, if her stomach wasn't still butterflying and her nerves weren't still tinging every time she felt his strong hands on her. On hard days, when the mission feels too much like a close call, he holds her tight to him before they climb back in to their SUV. She feels his relief in the way he buries his hand in her hair, pulls her against his hot mouth and sighs her name. She is his Jane, his hero, his rock and his partner, and she feels it most in those heavy, quiet seconds before they head back to the office.

He touches her often when they're out with friends.

Not constantly, not jealously, but quick, deliberate moves to remind her that he's there. A press of the lips to her forehead when he arrives at the bar later than the rest of them. A squeeze of her hand when he gets up from the dinner table to clear away plates. A brush of the fingertips against her hip when they're putting on coats and jackets to walk home. Sometimes she catches Patterson's eye- she never misses anything- and blushes because it is so familiar, so _ordinary_ a thing for him to do when she was scared she could never be normal. Better still are the times when Zapata mocks him for his newfound tactile nature- her _you got it bad, Weller._ He always laughs, softly, and pulls her to him to kiss her forehead. His comfort buoys her, eases away any sense of not belonging she has felt over the past year.

He touches her like fine china behind closed doors.

It's such a stark difference when they're on their own. He is almost fragile, reverent, in the way he approaches her; not nervous as such, but disbelieving that she leaves herself open for him. For so long they danced around one another that every touch now seems like an extension of the tango they're been performing for so much of their turbulent relationship. Except now that they get so much time alone they are waltzing; gliding around in harmony. He holds her tenderly from behind when she's at the sink, presses his lips to the bird tattoo that has become his favourite. When he takes her to bed he is more vocal than she had ever expected him to be; all _Can I?_ and _Is this ok?_ and _I need you._ He lays her down like a baby bird, only ever returning to the possessive roughness that he exhibits in the field when she calls out for it. When he moans and shudders and cries out on top of her he always presses his fingertips roughly in to her flesh, only to kiss and caress and stroke and cradle when he returns to himself.

He tells her he loves her in all those ways too; an abrupt aside when they leave the locker room in the morning; a heavy pant when he pushes a suspect in to the back of a van and then turns to check on her; a casual _this is why I love you_ when she brings him his favourite snack from the bar; and then whispers between kisses, between caresses, as he promises with his hands and his lips that he is hers forever.


	3. Rage, Quelled

The first time they fight he is careful not to touch her. Even as tempers rise he keeps his arms resolutely at his sides, paces the floor as she sits on the couch and cries, as she stands with her back to the wall and begs him to just say _something_. He remembers the brutal fight between them in that dingy motel; when all he wanted was to bring her back in to custody, when his anger caused him to lash out in a way that makes bile rise when he remembers it. She finds it more frustrating, he can tell, that he is so closed off from her pain now. Knows that she thinks it is because he doesn't care as much as she does, this he is aloof and uncaring. Yet he can't bring himself to rise to anything more than a hoarse grunt until she screams, _Just_ feel _something, please!_

He pushes her up against the wall, arms pinned up and bent at the elbows, chest flush against his.

' _Don't'_ he hisses, 'Don't _ever t_ ell me I don't feel anything. I'm trying my best not to feel anything right now, not to hurt you.' He struggling halts and she pants, wrists limp in his hands.

'I can handle myself,' she breathes, but the rage has gone, 'I just want you to _talk_ to me. Don't shut me out.'

He holds his breath and presses his forehead to hers. They've been arguing for nearly an hour now; what began as a terse discussion over why he didn't tell her that Roman had been sighted in Michigan soon devolved in to every pent up frustration, every molecule of agony they'd both felt over everything that had passed between her and her brother, coming to the surface. Now, they stand pressed against one another and the wall, their anger mellowing in to something more painful and bittersweet.

'You and I, Jane, we settle things with our fists. Our first instinct is to fight. I can't bear us being like that when we're together. I don't want to touch you in anger and it end in either one of us hurting the other.'

He lets go of her wrists and brings his face up to look her in the eye as her hands rest on his cheeks.

'Sometimes,' she whispers, 'Sometimes I remember things about Oscar. About what we were like together. Always training, always training to know how to hurt one another if necessary. I don't want to be like that with you.'

She kisses him, then, and all the pain melts away until they are clinging to one another tighter. Clothes on the floor, his fingertips pressed in to her flesh, thighs wrapped around his hips and he is inside of her, moaning apologies against on another's mouths.


	4. Terrace by Twilight

He wakes alone, arm stretched out over a bed that is empty but still full of the warmth of her. Briefly, he curls his hand in to the sheets, feeling for her, before pulling himself up to peer through the darkness. There is a crack of light at the door; one of his lamps from the hall, the one that lets off the most subtle light and he smiles at the thought of her feeling around in the dark so as not to wake him.

She'll soon figure out what a heavy sleeper he is.

The dull ache in his thigh has heightened to a painful throbbing though; pulling him from deep sleep back in to the night and he pulls the cover back and lifts his leg slowly over the edge of the bed. The adrenaline and painkillers that fuelled him earlier, allowed him to carry her from the hall in to his bed, has dissipated and he stumbles from the mattress in search of pain relief.

He finds her on the terrace, follows the cool breeze through the halls as he pushes a pill in to his mouth and swallows it dry. The sight of her wets his mouth enough. He's mutely surprised that she would be wandering his apartment naked, part of him expected her to cover up the second he rolled off of her earlier in the night, but he won't for a second complain. He clears his throat as he limps towards her and she melts in to his arms as he wraps them around her.

'Can't sleep?' he plants a kiss on her shoulder bade, wraps one arm across her breasts and spreads his other hand over her stomach. She is warm and soft despite the cool evening breeze and he wonders how long they could comfortably stay like this, in this moment, his hands exploring her.

'Just…' she sighs and brings a hand up behind her to touch the back of his neck, 'Couldn't help but think about what comes next?'

'For us?' he tightens his grip on her as she nods, turning her head so that they are cheek to cheek. 'Well, for now, I was going to suggest you come back to bed,' her breath hitched, her mouth opened and he planted a hot kiss on her, felt himself stirring against her, and turned her around, 'Tomorrow? Whatever you want. I'll be right here with you.'

She grinned, snaked her hand down between his legs and sighed again, 'What if I want to go through training? Become a member of the team properly this time. Would you be okay with that?'

He thinks of the nights away from her, the weeks of no contact that would be facing them, but also of having her by his side in the field. Officially, no question of her being taken away, no undermining comments from anyone else in the office.

'I'm with you, whatever, Jane. Whatever you want.'


End file.
